


i've wasted time, i've wasted breath

by i_am_therefore_i_fight



Category: The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Ghost!Pete, Lots of Crying, Post-Miss Missing You, ghost!Patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_therefore_i_fight/pseuds/i_am_therefore_i_fight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Elton's angels has come to collect Patrick from the trailer park, but he doesn't want to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've wasted time, i've wasted breath

He sees a figure in the corner of his eye, crouching just out of arm’s reach, but he doesn’t look; he just continues to rock, arms wrapped around his knees with the curve of the hook pressing into his shin, eyes fixed unseeing on Pete’s still form.

 

“Patrick.”

 

It’s a woman’s voice, and he flinches, curling in on himself. If he never hears the female vocal register again, it won’t be soon enough.

 

“It’s time to go, Patrick.”

 

Go? He imagines he can feel his pulse pounding in his ears, though that seems unlikely with his dead body slowly bloating under the scorching sun a few feet away. This place is horrible. His own personal hell. But he can’t leave; this is the last place he saw Pete alive, the last place he will see Pete, will see _any_ of his friends, ever again. Leaving here would be equivalent to leaving them behind. And he can’t. He can’t.

 

He shakes his head, mute.

 

“Patrick, honey, come on. You can’t stay here.”

 

“I can’t leave him,” croaks Patrick, and it’s like the act of speaking has opened the floodgates again. His face crumples, and his voice shakes as he says, “I can’t leave – ” and breaks off into a sob.

 

The woman sighs. Her figure shifts toward him at the edge of his vision, and he cringes away.

 

She sighs again, and rises.

 

“I’ll be back,” she says. “If you see anyone coming, hide. They’ll drag your soul down to Tommy Lee before you can say… I don’t know. ‘Please don’t take me to hell’.”

 

He doesn’t pay any attention to her. He’s already in hell; anyone could see that. All that matters now is not leaving Pete alone to rot in Death Valley.

 

* * *

 

Pete’s not sure how long he’s been walking, although he knows with a sort of dreamy limited omniscience that he’s almost out of Death Valley (and moving toward something better, maybe, some kind of peace, although it feels like there’s a hole in him that he’ll never get relief from) when he hears someone say his name.

 

He stops, though he doesn’t turn; he feels like if he turns around and catches another glimpse of all he’s left, he’ll be drawn back in, and his elusive chance for escape to a higher place will be gone.

 

“Pete.”

 

Footsteps behind him, and then the person is walking around to stand in front of him. It’s a young woman in a long white tunic, generically pretty, but with a pinched, impatient expression on her face.

 

“What do you want?” he bites out, fists clenching at his sides. He’s already dead, and if this bitch wants to make trouble, he’s ready to show her how little he has to lose.

 

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m here about Patrick.”

 

 _Patrick?_ Even just his name sends a jolt of pain whistling through the empty place inside Pete. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to banish images of his friend with beastly yellow eyes and a twisted, vicious expression.

 

“What about him?” he manages to eke out.

 

“I was sent to get him, but he won’t budge.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Says he doesn’t want to leave you.”

 

“You were sent to get him?” The thought of Patrick, still out there somewhere, alone and targeted by new and unknown forces, makes Pete want to turn on his heel and go racing headlong back into the desert hell he’s on the verge of escaping.

 

“The rest of you don’t seem to be having any trouble finding your way out and up, but Patrick’s… stuck,” says the girl. “It’s like his compass is broken.”

 

Pete’s knees feel weak. “What can I do?”

 

“You’re going to have to help him. I don’t think he’ll move for anyone else.”

 

“I have to go back?”

 

“If you want Patrick to reach Heaven. Then yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Patrick?”

 

A shudder passes through him and he drags his eyes up, up, all the way up to Pete’s worried face, right on his eye level.

 

“Hey, man.” After only a split second of hesitation, Pete does what the girl couldn’t and reaches across to rest his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

 

Patrick’s vision blurs. Pete’s hand has weight and warmth. It feels so real. “Pete?”

 

“Hey,” Pete says again, and Patrick thinks he sounds a little choked up, too. “Yeah, it’s me. Hey… let’s get out of here, okay?”

 

“Pete, I’m – ” The words – an apology, maybe, or mindless begging, _don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone here,_ he’s not sure – stick in his throat, and he makes a guttural sound, his lungs swelling to fill his chest, the air in them turning to lead.

 

“Patrick. Quit. Don’t freak out right now, okay? Let’s just go. Come on.”

 

Pete’s arm is sliding around his back, hauling him up, and he stumbles – but Pete catches him, patiently setting him back on his feet again, and Patrick leans on him heavily, cradling the hook close to his chest as if to shield it from Pete’s eyes. Pete’s trying to keep his eyes forward, anyway – he’s not sure how much he can take of this, seeing his best friend maimed and ravaged, covered in dust and the blood of the dead.

 

But it’s still Patrick, and after a while the silence starts to feel like a wound – it feels like that empty place in his chest, the one that hurts every time the echoes of his old life rebound from the walls. Steeling himself, Pete turns his head toward his friend – and sees that Patrick is crying silently, rivers of tears making pale streaks in the dirt and grime on his face.

 

“ ‘Trick? Hey.” He squeezes with the arm that’s around Patrick’s waist now, supporting him as best he can even while his own knees wobble with exhaustion. “You with me?”

 

“I’m so sorry.” The words come like gravel from his throat, and Patrick stops walking, shudders wracking his small frame. “I’m so – _sorry_ – ”

 

Pete pulls him insistently forward, one step at a time. “It wasn’t you, man.”

 

Patrick doesn’t reply, just sobs as he stumbles along with Pete’s arm around him.

 

* * *

 

The ride up seems to take forever, and Patrick almost thinks he could doze off like this: his head resting on Pete’s shoulder, his friend’s arm around him, both of them with knees shaking, almost too exhausted to stand. It’s dark in this creaky, ancient elevator, and if he closes his eyes, he could almost imagine that it’s the darkness that birthed the universe, the quiet before the whole noisy world came into existence, and that he’s here with Pete, and that everything’s okay now.


End file.
